Because Love Is Blind
by Kate-Le-Contrary
Summary: Written for the Rumbelle Secret Santa on tumblr. AU. In which Belle is a reclusive former mental patient who pretends to be blind in order to fool the landlord's no-pets rule, and soon regrets it.


**'Because Love Is Blind'**

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**Prompt:** "Belle wants a dog" (for crawsh-queen)**  
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**Words:** ~8710

**Category:** _AU**. **So very, very AU._ Drama, Romance, Ironic Humor, Character Focus

**Characters:** Belle "Avonlea" French, Archie Hopper, Mr. Gold, Jefferson, Grace, other

**Type:** short story

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Kate-Le-Contrary

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**DISCLAIMER: THE TV SHOW_ ONCE UPON A TIME_ AND _ITS_ _DEPICTIONS_ OF LONG OUT-OF-COPYRIGHT CHARACTERS ARE PROPERTY OF ABC, HOROWITZ, AND KITSIS. PLEASE SUPPORT THE ENDEAVORS OF THE ORIGINAL CREATORS.**

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What Belle Avonlea _wants_ is a dog.

What she _comes into possession of_ are a pair of Siamese cats, two laminated rope dog tethers, and half-a-dozen all-black sunglasses.

After spending so much time alone, an animal companion seemed the sort of thing that might do her good: once she announced her aversion to the idea of moving back in with her father ("I _don't _want to see _him_ anytime soon!"), Dr. Hopper himself recommended the idea to her. The thought's been on her mind a lot recently, and she decides she might go down to the animal shelter soon; if it weren't for the invasive old lady next door in 206 she might have gone through with it.

She hasn't been back from the asylum for a full week before her eccentric neighbor comes rapping at the door, twitching basket and plate of warm cookies balanced on one stiff arm. This is where the two Siamese cats come in: Belle is startled the first time they slither out of the basket and meander purposely (claws extended) towards the bedraggled drapes, tails curling fondly against her bare calves as they pass. The old maid in number 206 ("_call me Aunt Sarah, honey—everyone does!_") returns often, seemingly glad to find another resident (and apparently fellow shut-in) in the apartment bloc to chat and wile the hours away with during the workweek. The cats ("_my darling children! My babies!_") can do no wrong in Aunt Sarah's eyes, and return to Belle's tiny, musty room as often as Aunt Sarah and her old-fashioned skirts do.

Belle is just happy she has made an acquaintance: Dr. Hopper suggests having a frequent guest will help her move back into the world by driving back any fight-or-flight thoughts or PTSD she might have experienced since the first few weeks out. Aunt Sarah, while a busybody spinster and eager to push Belle out into a broader social sphere (_"I could introduce you to one of my nephews!_") in a way that is unabashedly manipulative, is immensely, sincerely kind to the no-longer-quite-insane Belle. However, Belle feels that these regular visits might be leading up to something. She's been eating free almond-macadamia-nut cookies for near a month, now: there's gotta be catch. She's gleaned from Aunt Sarah's stories of her numerous relatives that they _always_ owe her something ("_I'm a martyr for my family, really!_") because of the "marvelous advice one of an age like mine imparts upon the young". Belle just hopes Aunt Sarah won't decide that a former crazy should spare time meeting one of those numerous nephews, as a favor to a friendless old woman...

It's a Monday when Aunt Sarah makes the appearance that will obligate Belle towards that immense favor (involving Siamese cats and leashes, by the number of two, and some very thick wavy-glass shades). The white-haired lady has just set herself down on Belle's sparse sofa when, from the hallway, comes an immense pounding noise. Aunt Sarah startles: her teacup rattles in the saucer, and Belle's eyes dart towards the door as she presses herself against the sofa in a terrified imprint. She recalls a calming breathing exercise, and with effort draws nearer to the edge of the sofa.

"Ms. Felton!" calls a strongly accented (familiar? Belle isn't sure) male voice that now accompanies the pounding on a nearby door. Aunt Sarah drops one hand (which had previously been stroking one of the salaciously-purring cats) abruptly with uncharacteristic rudeness ("_sit up straighter, honey! They'll take you back yet unless you improve upon manners!")_. They both stiffen. Swiftly, Aunt Sarah approaches the door with stealth to rival one of her glassy-eyed pets. Five more knocks, rough and impatient.

"I'm _sure_ you've read the little book, Ms. Felton. I'll move up your eviction date if you don't comply with the no-pets rule," the voice, sardonic and tired, curves around the words 'eviction date' triumphantly. Aunt Sarah (Sarah _Felton_, Belle thinks dimly) tiptoes nearer to Belle's door. The Siamese cats retreat, hissing, into their basket.

"This is your one-week notice, Ms. Felton," the voice is moving, roving up and down the tiny hallway. "I don't know _where_ you've chosen to hide his time, but rest assured that your room had better be fur-free by Thursday if you plan on retaining your cozy sitting space. Do you _hear me,_ Ms. Felton? Good."

With finality, the door to the stairwell creaks audibly. Belle and Aunt Sarah gaze at each other, Belle quite flushed and startled, as the tap-tap-tapping noise and footsteps fade away. Aunt Sarah, pale as to match her hair, resumes her place on the torn sofa primly. The two cats emerge from their cobra's den, sliding onto the comfort of Aunt Sarah's lap to immediate attention. Belle stills, even now trying to place that voice—_that voice!_ Her effort fails. Aunt Sarah turns her chinless countenance quite suddenly, her plump, wrinkly hands clasping Belle's own sun-deprived one in earnestness.

"If only you could do something," she begs desperately (flaunting the dramatic talent she often mentions possessing when she gets into the subject of her younger years as an actress), "hardly anyone knows you, hardly anyone knows _of _you! Please, just for a little while…take care my babies." She looks at the cats piteously, and the cats give Belle a condemnatory stare, as if to say _you don't want to help your neighbor? Surely you know what neighborliness is, even if you're a crazy one! _One of the cats sneezes into a sooty paw, and Aunt Sarah stares longingly at her pets. The imagined voices in Belle's head continue, synchronized: _She's your only friend. Won't even help a friend, that one. Insane girl, insane girl, insane girl…_

Belle turns her head sharply away to consider this prospect (_fool the landlord?! It could be possible…a worthy cause?_) without distraction. Sure enough, the chanting (_all in your head, all in your head!_) stops.

Aunt Sarah, the sort of person some might find equally pretentious and odious, has always struck Belle as being a very lonely individual. Belle hesitates, gazing at the two purring cats, then back at their owner—who, despite claims of having a large extended family, has never shown proof of such—and she decides then that she won't let the old woman, as disagreeable yet well-meaning as she can be, be forced to live alone without her sole companions.

Belle sighs and consents to help the woman from 206. Aunt Sarah only spares a moment to look relieved before she starts nattering away about proper food and care and "_I don't suppose you'd like to meet my youngest nephew?_" followed by a swift "_don't trouble yourself, please!_"

An hour later, the plan is formed—strange enough, Aunt Sarah is suddenly inspired with this scheme after talking about her grandmother for a long, long while. Belle doesn't like it, but she has to admit it will work. Now, to convince Dr. Hopper…

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She takes to the streets two days later, Dr. Hopper having assured her numerous times that getting out and meeting people is important to her full recovery. The deliveries of groceries and other necessities cease when she gives him her tremulous nod, and it is only when she reaches the door that she suddenly stops in thoughtful pause. Dr. Hopper, hands politely clasped as always, quirks his head, ready to hear whatever it is she might have forgotten.

"Oh," Belle starts, "there is something I didn't mention…"

Archie Hopper ushers her to perch again on the edge of the sofa, motioning for her to continue.

"You remember the lady I've told you about, the old woman next door who visits sometimes?"

Dr. Hopper's eyes light up in remembrance, and his eyes contain a sudden professional curiosity. The man is ever-eager to help. "Yes, you haven't mentioned her for a few sessions, other than saying her visits were regular and didn't differ much from time to time… what about her?"

"I've offered to do her a favor…I think it might help me settle into the outside world without everything about me…_coming out_."

Belle explains the plan. When she finishes, Dr. Hopper's face is troubled.

"I don't think I can condone that," he says, "while it might actually be beneficial for you personally, it sounds a bit too…"

"It would only be temporary," Belle presses, "just long enough for Ms. Felton to get on her feet. She's been planning on moving for a while, and I don't know that many people. Which could make this work, especially if you help! People don't know me, and those that have heard of me only know I came from the hospital. Not _why_ I was in the hospital. And it may be wrong, but I don't want everyone to have some sort of preconception about who I am just because I came from the mental ward."

Dr. Hopper sighs heavily. "It seems you are concealing some pressing inner issues, Belle: you aren't entirely motivated by charity. I can understand your need to have a fresh start, but these things will _out_ eventually, whether you like it or not."

"I _do _understand that," Belle replies fervently, "I just think it would be easier to meet new people if they don't expect someone straight from the loony bin—and if I get to know them enough, I can tell them what really happened. Also, I'll be helping my neighbor. Just for a week or two? It's not like this is entirely selfish, you know. She says she has a huge family, but I only ever see her spend time with her cats. It would be terrible if she had to give them away. So, a white lie."

"I'm not calling you selfish, Belle. I'm just not a fan of dishonesty or you pretending to be what you're not," her psychiatrist states. Belle looks at Dr. Hopper expectantly, head tilted to the side.

"Alright," he exhales a little, running one hand through ginger hair, "I'll help you with this nonsense—but only because it does service to the both of you, regardless of ulterior motives, and with you being a special case and all. I don't expect any more trouble in the future. And it's a good thing for you and this devious charade that eyesight recovery can be swift." His forehead wrinkles in displeasure.

Belle beams at him. It's been a good day, the threat of being forced to meet Sarah's endless nephews and fourth cousins finally obliterated. "Thank you, Dr. Hopper—this really will help make me ready to finally go _out._"

She suspects she still might be a little crazy.

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Belle frowns in the mirror.

She can't really tell that she's frowning in the mirror. The glasses cover half her face—she decides that they have to be fairly old.

"I can't _see_ anything."

"That's the point, Ms. Avonlea," one intern snorts, checking his watch.

"We were just told to get you some extra glasses, don't really care otherwise," the other intern mumbles, sorting through the other pairs in the dim supply closet.

_Rude. _

"…And here's a white cane." A long, thin pole is handed to her, and she grasps the ropey tether at the top.

"See ya later, blind lady," the first voice says, and with that they walk away, leaving her with the guide stick.

_I really dislike this hospital staff, _Belle thinks, _but again, I hate the hospital in general. Don't know what I'm doing, volunteering to come back here. _

She looks around, and even when she gazes where she knows the light source to be, doesn't see anything. _I guess this is good practice, anyhow…I have to learn to look realistic about it…_

Belle sighs, tips off her huge dark glasses to pinpoint where the door is (she gets the feeling she'll be remembering such things in the future), replaces them, and begins feeling her way in the correct direction.

With a _whoosh_ of sliding doors, the heat of the clammy hospital leaves her, and Belle is grudgingly satisfied to notice that she can actually see through her glasses, but just barely. Belle shudders as she leaves the hospital, and not because of the sudden cold.

_Shut up,_ she tells the mocking voice that threatens to rise from within her, _and don't come back! _And then, her mantra: _not insane, not insane, not insane…_

It's a hazy late afternoon and there's a cat lounging on her lap when she hears the double knock on her apartment door. Strangely enough, the twin creatures seem to loathe and love her equally in turns—and at this time, they hate her. The cat doesn't even take time to stretch before leaping away with a hiss.

Belle swiftly pushes on a pair of her special glasses and yanks the guide stick onto her wrist, feeling her way towards the door and nearly tripping over the other cat. Unhappily, he yowls—and Belle grimaces.

She scrambles at the door handle, squinting through her shades at the sudden release of light coming from the window at the end of the hall. She really should take down the curtains in her room, come to think of it. Barely enough light as it is. Her visitor is male, Belle decides as her eyes begin to adjust—on the short side, but definitely a man.

"Can I help you, sir?" she asks quietly, shifting her weight away from the wall. Better to appear demure and disabled if it's the landlord. People just don't tend to evict the disabled, which was Sarah's plan. Belle takes this moment to wonder if pretending to be visually disabled, even for a good reason, makes her a terrible person. But then again, she isn't_ lying_ about being disabled, just falsifying _how._ Her moment of pondering is cut short as she realizes she hasn't received an answer.

There's a terribly awkward, breathless silence, and Belle figures that whoever it is—a thin, well-dressed man, by the not-really-there looks of it (_goodness these glasses are hard to see through)—_must be a bit shy, or possibly hard of hearing. He doesn't seem to be moving much. She realizes who stands at her door as soon as she spots the faint outline of a cane. Better to feign ignorance, though.

"Sir?" she repeats the inquiry, widening the door (and her light-deprived eyes) as one of the smug cats pushes between her calves to stare saucily up at the fellow. Belle adjusts her dress self-consciously.

"No— pets…rule." He stammers in a Scottish brogue, fixated for some reason on Belle's shoulders, face, hair—lingering especially on her dark glasses. He doesn't bother to spare a moment for the cat at all. In fact, Belle has the distinct feeling that she could kick the screeching, unappreciative feline behind her in this moment and he might not notice.

His hand darts out as if to touch her, and then stills, dropping it to his side forcibly. Belle wonders how this could be any more uncomfortable.

"Have we… _met, _Ms.—?" finally, a touch of normalcy. Or perhaps this is how everyone acts nowadays: Belle wouldn't really be in a position to know.

"—Avonlea," Belle finishes, holding up her free hand for a handshake, which he doesn't take. "And I'm _assuming_ you're the infamous landlord Aunt Sarah warned me about. Maybe I'm wrong, though. I'm sorry—who are you?"

The man's (_hopeful? Why?_) face crumples into a more subdued—_pain_ed—expression.

"Mr. Gold." Belle is about to retract her hand, but he suddenly grabs hold of it very tightly, "and it is _so, so good_ to meet you, dearest."

_He actually sounds sincere, _Belle marvels: _not unreasonable at all. So why was Sarah having issues with such a sociable—if a bit shy—man?_

He tilts his head sideways, and whispers. "Are you _sure_ you don't mean Ms. French, though?" She doesn't get the chance to correct him indignantly, or even to wonder how he knows her or _of_ her.

Belle's hand is jerked free of her visitor's when the other cat decides to make an appearance, clambering onto Belle's shoulder with a sudden heavy jump and twitching tail. Belle falls halfway against the wall, then feels behind her in order to stand up straight again. In a moment, Mr. Gold is there, asking her if she is alright, and being far too concerned and close for Belle's comfort. She feels the temptation to swat his hand away as he gently grasps her upper arm and helps pull her up, except for the fact that his hand feels _very _nice where it is.

She gives the man a dazzling smile and steps back clumsily. He still hasn't stopped asking her if she hurts at all, and if she needs to sit down, and the poor man sounds quite frantic. Belle is a bit amused (it was barely a tumble!), and pushes the Siamese cats away from her feet.

"I'm not _that_ fragile," she tells him. "I'm just a bit unused to the apartment, that's all. I'm always falling over things, down things, on things. The cats don't make it any easier. Good thing I don't live anywhere big enough to have stairs. I mean, I don't use those ones much." She points down the hallway at the shared lift and staircase that leads the outer exit.

For some puzzling reason this statement gives Mr. Gold cause to look heartbroken. Belle wonders what _his_ issue is and decides that this is as good a time as any to breach _The Important Subject_.

"A-_hem_. Speaking of the cats, I assume you're here to address them and the no-pets rule? Actually, you still haven't confirmed: _are you_ the landlord? Because I've just been mailing in my checks for the whole short time I've been here…"

"Yes," Mr. Gold replies, apparently still looking her up and down for potential injuries. He seems to realize that he probably should say more, and seizes the opportunity to speak only after he seems satisfied with his once-twice-eight-times-over injury check.

"We _do_ need to talk about the cats, dearest. You might be a new face around here"—he flinches—"but those are clearly Ms. Felton's cats. I don't appreciate having the wool pulled over my eyes"—he winces again at that, clearly mortified by his choice of words—"even if it get a _lovely _surprise"—_ is he… flirting?_—"and I think it best that we sort this out now." His meaning is harsh, but his accented voice goes impossibly soft as he gazes unblinkingly at Belle. It's a bit unnerving.

"That's just fine," Belle gives Mr. Gold a gracious smile and shoves her door open fully.

"Do come sit down," she ushers her landlord in to the best of her ability, "and turn on the overhead lights if they aren't on already."

"They are on." He speaks as if in a daze.

"Good then!" she says, as if this astonishes her.

He follows her tripping, awkward steps reverently, and his gaze only sours the slightest when it focuses—_for once!—_on something other than his russet-haired tenant.

Namely, the patched and worn furniture.

"I'm sorry, please pardon the mess," Belle babbles a bit, experiencing sudden and extreme discomfort at the state of her cramped, miniscule apartment.

"It's not really the best set-up for company. Would you like some tea?"

All at once Mr. Gold's gaze snaps back to Belle, and she has the feeling that even if she _were_ blind, she might feel the heat from his intense, sudden change of focus.

"_Tea?_" he inquires hoarsely, and Belle wonders if perhaps it's not the sort of thing one gives to one's guests (Aunt Sarah is at least ninety, for all Belle knows offering tea or coffee is a thing of the past. New vogues for hosting. Hmmph).

"I apologize. Would you prefer something else, or—"

He interrupts her swiftly and in earnest. "No, please. Tea would mean _the world_ to me, Ms. Avonlea."

She raises her brows visibly over her glasses' frames, and heads slowly towards the tiny kitchen area.

"So, the cats…" she leads the conversation while stirring the teabag in. Mr. Gold happens to be peering through the open door of her tiny bedroom at her rumpled sheets (_isn't he familiar with the layouts of his own buildings?_), and his eyes travel back to regard her as soon as she addresses him. For what will not be the last time, Belle wishes that she could see him better through her thick light-impermeable shades.

He clears his throat "Yes, the no-pets rule. And why you have Ms. Felton's cats."

"It's quite simple, really," Belle explains, peering unnoticeably through the cloudy spectacles, "she's lent them to me as seeing-eye cats—unusual! I know!—until she moves elsewhere. I was thinking of getting a dog, until I heard you in the hallway sounding most displeased about the notion of beasts in the building" (Mr. Gold, quite surprisingly, flushes…) "This way we both have our needs met. _And_," Belle tacks on at the end, "I'm quite sorry I didn't read the renting contract closely enough, or I might have known beforehand about the rule. I've not been in the best... state of mind, as of late." _Ha-ha, _her subconscious voice jeers unpleasantly, _that's a joke only you can get. Insane girl, insane girl, crazy…_ she spills hot tea on herself and yelps backwards. At least it gets that part of her to shut up. Mr. Gold is staring at the closed curtains, and doesn't notice her frantic attempts to wipe away the spill while half-incapacitated.

"In _that _case," Mr. Gold says stiffly, tugging at his tie with delicate unease, "I'll consider a lift of the clause necessary for your _special circumstances_. I do apologize for the commotion, and hope I haven't been an inconvenience…" he mutters unhappily, and is suddenly interrupted from his moodiness by the prompt approach of a tea-bearing, beaming Belle, stick freely swinging from the arm where it has been hung.

"Thank you so _much_!" Belle exclaims, aiming one cup of tea in the direction of Mr. Gold's hands and landing the other on the settee successfully. Mr. Gold has but time to properly grasp the cup and saucer before her arms fall on him tightly in a happy hug that Belle herself didn't know she had in her. Stunned, he tenses for a few moments, but soon melts under her touch with an almost-imperceptible sigh, closing his eyes. Belle withdraws her arms almost as soon as she realizes where they've gone. She prepares to apologize for her reaction, but Mr. Gold quickly sets his tea down with a startled clatter, interrupting her easily-scattered (_insane, he thinks you're insane!_) thoughts and causing the both of them to jump the slightest bit.

Even with thick shades separating her from him, his tremulous, disbelieving smile is visible. "You're _certainly_ welcome, Ms. Avonlea. And thank you for the tea."

"Oh, I spilled some!" Belle says regretfully, and without a breath taken Mr. Gold is quick to insert a "no matter, dearest" (_he_ _does say that quite a bit, doesn't he?_) in assurance. He turns from her, and Belle realizes with frustration that she can't see him properly. She scoots nearer to him on the sofa, trying to spy that thing about him that seemed so…familiar a few days back. He tenses again, but seems to readily accept her nearness. Doubtless an assumption that she doesn't know how near r far she is from something.

Belle impatiently wishes that there were more light.

"Are there enough lights on? Are the drapes open?" she can _see_ (amazingly enough) that the lights _are_ on, but the curtains are closed.

"The lights are all on, but the drapes are closed. Do you want me to open them?" Mr. Gold offers, twitching when her hand brushes his in an attempt to reach the sugar.

Mr. Gold stays her hand, and, with his own, drops two cubes of sugar in Belle's teacup, stirring it around. Belle wonders how he knows her tea preferences. Perhaps she has common tastes, or that's a polite thing to do in general.

A warm, firm hand guides her gently towards the handle of her teacup, and she misses the feeling when her fingers find its edge and he moves his hand away—not far, but not touching. The other moves up towards the window at his back, and with a smooth motion and audible _swish_, the room is flooded with light.

"Thank you," Belle smiles.

"Why bother having lights on? Why the drapes?" Mr. Gold eyes Belle unabashedly. He thinks she can't see him, of course…

"Well, I'm not _all_ blind," she explains as if she has a thousand times before. "I can see colors and, every now and then, a tiny flicker of light at the edge of my vision. I can feel warmth, even if I can't see it" Belle sips her tea cheerfully. "And my vision is improving all the time, Dr. Hopper says. Besides, the cats can see, and so can other visitors."

Mr. Gold nods, and, realizing she can't see his visual cue, gives her a sound of agreement. Then, as if some idea has struck him—

"_Dr. Hopper?_" his voice has taken on a dangerous tinge that reminds Belle of the first time that she heard him speak. Gracious, the man has mood swings more than she does. "Why Dr. Hopper?"

Belle realizes her mistake too late. "Well, he's—he's backup staff for the hospital, and I was there so long that I know most everybody…there isn't a specialist for optics, but I _do_ have movement therapy sometimes, and he _is_ fairly well-informed all around."

"I see," Mr. Gold says, and turns to study her. She reciprocates, even though he hardly can know it.

"May I ask you something?" He searches her face.

"Go on."

"What do you miss most about your sight?"

Belle laughs. "That's under the assumption that I wasn't born blind, but I don't mind. In fact, I've only had an accident rather recently." Mr. Gold seems to realize that his question could be taken offensively, and rips his gaze away from her uncomfortably. This time, he scrutinizes his cane. Belle isn't bothered, though, and to prove it, she thinks honestly about the question. _What __**would**__I miss the most? Why haven't I thought of these things? _

What comes out is, she supposes, a half-truth. "I miss reading the most. I used to be able to travel far away, you see, and have company all the time, but I can't read a book, so no vicarious thrills for me."

He's silent at that. She can't imagine her life without books: they were what kept her sane all those years in the sanitarium, since…since her father had her committed. Books were, _are_ her escape. Her key to the world outside the asylum.

"One more question?" the quiet voice interrupts her thoughts.

She nods.

"It's…a bit personal. I confess that..." He is struck wordless for a moment, and swallows. "That you—happen to remind me of someone that I knew, a long _long_ time ago."

"M-hmm," she says. _Go on…_

He still hesitates; worried he will offend her.

"Could I—that is, would you let me see your eyes?" _Not what I was expecting. Still, harmless so long as I don't focus on anything…_

Wordlessly, she lifts the thick shades from her eyes, being careful to fix her eyes over the landlord's shoulder. Now the room just seems overly lit. She wonders at the fact that Mr. Gold didn't complain. (Mr. Gold is far too anxious to complain.)

She can't see it, but his hands start to tremble, and his jaw works. What she _can_ see in her peripheral vision is that he has the nicest brown eyes. The world looks strange, suddenly having regained a lot of color. Just as before, he reaches out to touch her (because she can't see, of course)

The impatient mewing of one of the bored cats seems to wake Mr. Gold from his concentration. Belle remembers that she needs to feed the cats soon.

"It's all _real,_" he whispers with emotion, and stumbles to his full height with the help of his cane.

Belle replaces the sunglasses over her eyes, wondering what on _earth _that means.

"I must be going, Ms. Avonlea—it seems I have an appointment with our _mayor_." There's something rather nasty in the oddly high tone he uses on that word, and Belle can't really place the reason his knuckles on his teacup suddenly clench and whiten. He turns towards her, and his voice softens. "But it was an absolute pleasure to meet you, dearest. Do have a lovely day…"

Belle turns towards him from where she sits. "And thank you for being considerate about the cats. Do show yourself out, you'll do it far better than I. Oh, and feel free to drop in anytime for tea, or…anything, really." She can't stifle the hope that he will come back: his company is more interesting than Aunt Sarah's. Belle wonders what exactly the man is hiding. Not that she should be one to talk.

"I'll come again soon," Mr. Gold states, and it's a promise. He fixes her with such a stare that she feels she can't move from where she sits.

What _is_ that indescribable look—hopeful, mournful, _longing_? Belle can't give it a name—that he gives her before he shuts the door with the almost-noiseless whisper of a closing crypt? Belle, all at once, feels trapped behind her glasses, behind the walls, behind this immense lie she can't rid herself of soon enough. She clenches at the sofa and feels so utterly trapped by _walls._

Perhaps she would feel a little better if she had only asked him to stay a bit longer. Mr. Gold made her feel…somewhat more _real_ than she did when she was sitting and chatting with Aunt Sarah…

Her hand is clenching, and soon enough, she realizes precisely _what_ it is that she grasps between her fingers.

_His handkerchief…he left it._

It's embroidered: _'R.G.'. _Belle realizes she doesn't even know his first name. Perhaps she _is_ the slightest bit blind, she considers. Or maybe there's a facet to being mad that she didn't know before…

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Mr. Gold (_Mr. __**R**__ Gold, _Belle Avonlea reminds herself), the landlord, returns two days later in the middle of a rain shower, looking remarkably more controlled and having obviously spent the days between thinking of ways he can assist her, despite needing to borrow one of her towels. This time, he makes the tea. He scoffs when she starts leading him to the sofa and instead catches her hand (nervously, he fidgets the entire time) to guide her around the toys the cats have left in her path. It would be incredibly sweet if she actually _were_ blind (and it's _still_ incredibly sweet, even when she _isn't_). This is the first time Belle truly regrets her lie: he tells her he admires honest people, and that she seems remarkably outspoken with her inner thoughts (she isn't particularly; he merely inspires her to share them). She would take it as a compliment if her stomach didn't start to knot a little at the thought that he's only helping her because she happens to remind him of some blind friend he once had (for that is the conclusion she has drawn). When he leaves, she remembers the handkerchief and tries to give it back: he insists that she keeps it, and she once again surprises the pair of them with a hug. However, with those dark glasses on and the roaring rain smattering the window with heavy-handed raindrops, she steps on one of the Siamese cat's tails and is rewarded with a blush from either of them from both the hug and her insistence on cleaning his scratches on his good leg with antibiotics.

"I'm terribly sorry," she laughs a bit, because the whole thing seems a bit funny.

Aunt Sarah isn't so amused. "Don't let the landlord hang around, Belle!" she hisses: "he'll start to suspect something, soon enough. And he's a regular reptile, that one. Take my word for it—I've lived in this town for a long time."

Belle ignores Aunt Sarah, and feels guilty when she finds herself thinking of who would make better company. After all, Aunt Sarah knows the truth about her. And Belle finds out, more and more every time, that she _doesn't want_ Mr. Gold to know the truth.

What if other people are less forgiving of her insanity? What if he never comes back because he's so disgusted with the fact that she's lived most of her life in a padded cell? No, she'd rather lie at being blind forever if it means no more rejection.

.

.

Dr. Hopper asks her at her next session if anything has been troubling her, and whether she needs to talk about anything, and all Belle finds she wants to talk about is her father (there's a reasons she calls herself Belle Avonlea, and not Belle French anymore. It was her mother's maiden name). Archie Hopper prods her further, and Belle discusses how she has met more people, recently, due to an accidental excursion into the local diner. Granny, Ruby, Mary Margaret, and Emma…how it's nice to have people who call out a hello to her as she walks the cats, even if they don't _know_ her that well yet.

_You're really terrible, aren't you?_ _Daddy issues, insane girl, and lying to everyone you know…_ a part of her that she hates smirks. At least the voice is a bit quieter nowadays. Thank goodness that Aunt Sarah has finally left apartment 206. Belle is sick of this charade, and her cat-sitting will end in a mere three days. When she goes home, Mr. Gold is just coming up the stairs, a ready smile on his face. He tries to surprise her (because, of course, he's a bit of a child and still thinks she can't see) and fails, and she assures him it's because her hearing has been honed in the absence of another sense.

She dreads the day that the truth comes out.

.

.

On the following Monday, she is taking the cats out for a walk (even harder to put them in the leashes than one might think, but for the fact that they actually seem to understand that they'd _better_ be seeing-eye cats if they want to have a nice home). This time, it's Jefferson and his daughter Grace that she nearly slams into, and Grace squeals happily when she realizes who exactly they've run into while rounding the corner.

"Missus Belle!" Grace barrels into Belle's side, and they grasp each other happily. "Daddy says he's stopped bringing you groceries, and they only let him do boring things now! What has happened to you?"

"I'd like to know that too." Jefferson's eye twitches, and he cracks his neck; "well, no hug for me?"

Belle concedes, and wraps her arms around Jefferson and the still-giggling Grace. Grace squirms, and she releases them both. Grace hands Belle a chocolate bar to unwrap, and upon doing so she hands it back to the girl. Jefferson eyes Belle skeptically.

"Whoa. What's with the get-up?"

He spots the cats (currently ripping mouthfuls of grass from the ground with wicked glee) and raises a brow.

"Those things look crazier than the both of us. No really, let's talk about this. Does Archie know what you're up to? If he has, he's not mentioned a thing! Crazy, crazy cats." One of the cats begins licking his tail, utterly absorbed in ignoring them.

Belle's fingers instantly go to her temples, and her eyes close. "_Please_ don't use that word, Jefferson," is her irritated response. Jefferson has a knack for driving her from her happy place. "If you _really_ want to know, we can find somewhere less open to talk. Otherwise, please leave me alone. It's been a tough day."

"I see."

Enter Mr. Gold, eyes wide and furious…

"Is someone harassing you, Ms. Avonlea?"

Grace squeaks in surprise and hides behind Belle's skirts, taking a huge bite out of a chocolate bar in the process. The cats squirm at their leashes.

"Not hardly," Belle retorts with amusement. "More like a pair of clowns than just 'someone'."

Jefferson's smile slides quickly from his lips, and he turns to Belle and bows.

"My darling lady Grace," he addresses his daughter, extending his hand to the tiny child, "Methinks it is time we bid our friend adieu and waltz home."

With that, he grasps Belle's hand, kisses it swiftly, and totes Grace onto one shoulder.

"Oooh, let me, let me!" she cries, and Belle, entertained, proffers her wrist to Grace's general direction.

Grace gives it a chocolatey kiss, and Jefferson skips away around the corner, giggling quite madly.

"G'bye, Missus Belle!" Grace hollers, "We're off to the Land of Loonies! Stop being blind soon!"

Mr. Gold scowls after them, and turns to Belle with a curious look on his face.

"What did she mean, 'stop being blind?' Did you know them?"

Belle won't answer, except to say that when she was a shut-in, Jefferson brought her groceries. In her peripheral vision, as Mr. Gold exhales and holds her arm gently in his to guide her along the sidewalk in a way that more than comforts her (as he looks at her like she's his reason for getting up every day), Belle sees the white-frocked hospital matron lead Jefferson and Grace away, and the start of the inevitable fight that happens whenever their mandatory separation occurs. Her glasses are very reflective on the inside. Belle can see the things directly behind her _perfectly_.

She shudders, and tugs at Mr. Gold's arm.

"Belle," he breathes reverently, her name a word he was afraid to use before. Strange that he'd never asked her for her first name. Pretty strange she'd never asked for his. But she doesn't really hear it; in fact, she doesn't even notice for a day or two that his name for her has changed. Her focus is on only one thing, as she sees Grace's arms tugged from her father's leg.

She's never going back there.

Ever.

.

.

Then the cats are taken away. Packed off to milk and cream twice a day and canned salmon, off to the twice-removed third niece's house that Aunt Sarah apparently had. Belle feels the end of this saga is drawing near. And she looks forward with much trepidation. Sure, she has helped her lonely neighbor. But she has also yet to tell her new friends—_and, perhaps, your new more-than-friends?_—that she is quite mad.

The leashes disappear as well, and all that separates her from the real world is a single pair of half-inch-thick glasses and a guide stick. And to think she would ever miss those cats and their furniture-rending habits.

Belle remembers that, quite a while ago, she wanted a dog.

And then comes the dog, and the day it all comes crashing down about her ears like—well, like curtains with too many cats climbing them.

.

.

She dreams of colors, winding around each other like layers of fabric, each with the vague impression of time and place. Then come sounds, sounds that are utterly unfamiliar—a distant roar, like a thousand people shouting at once, and a gentle, hypnotic creak, and finally, the hellish, heavenly silence rushing in her head until it is crushed by waves upon waves of voices that break her skull open.

Upon waking at noon, Belle Avonlea's hair is a mess, and she has a cold. She feels _funny_. Her glasses are taken off, and she rubs her eyes twice, deciding that A) she is running a low fever and B) her headache is _awful_.

And then, she smells the tea (a miracle through a stuffy nose), and looks up with fluttering, crusty eyes.

Mr. Gold is inches away from her nose, examining her face with fond eyes and holding his breath. The tea is in one of his hands, the other just a brush away from cupping her face (she could lean into it, but that might reveal too much). Belle is careful to let her eyes wander, and she has to wonder what it is with him and never-quite touching her. It's not like she'll get him sick…oh wait, she might.

"Nice try," she says, and he retreats a bit. Belle regrets not waiting a few moments more. "How did you get in here?"

He waves a key in front of himself triumphantly before pressing the shape against her palm so she can feel it.

"Ohh," her brows raise delightedly, "spare key, I feel. You ridiculous man!"

He confirms this. "You must have slept in for quite some time, Belle dearest," a note of concern enters his voice. "I do hope you're feeling well?"

"…Well enough," she states, and Mr. Gold promptly orders her to lie down. She doesn't bother to put the shades on. Hateful things.

The tea is unfortunately scalding today, and she burns her tongue violently, dropping the teacup on Mr. Gold's suit. It splashes the both of them and rolls to the floor, quite undamaged.

"You have a penchant for breaking teacups, I gather," Belle quirks her eyebrows quizzically, and Mr. Gold's smile fades.

"It's not made of porcelain, you know," she makes a show of scrambling for the teacup, and feels it over for cracks or chips before Mr. Gold can protest. "Doesn't damage that easily. See, completely whole."

"Completely whole," he whispers, glancing at her out of the corner of his eyes, and his face falls a bit as she rubs her eyes again, trying to get the crust out of the corners.

"Let me help you," he advises Belle, and shifts awkwardly closer to her. Belle is glad that she's so remarkably good at staring contests, for she doesn't blink as his hand brushes at her eyes and eyelids delicately, faces near enough for his breath to ghost over her cheekbones.

Belle realizes, with a start, that she'd very much like to kiss him. And this is a horrible thing to realize.

She jerks back as far as possible, and so does Mr. Gold.

"Have I hurt you?" he demands desperately. "Belle, are you alright?"

There's a long silence. At least it gives Belle time to think.

And that's when she decides. She's sick of this. Belle Avonlea is not a born liar, and she doesn't want to become a made liar, either.

Mr. Gold is still waiting, petrified at the other end of her scraggly sofa.

"I'm fine, quite fine. But that's the trouble, you see."

Mr. Gold looks equal parts clueless and terrified.

Belle sighs. "I have a request to make of you."

Mr. Gold answers fervently. "Anything, dearest."

"Hear me out for, oh, about five minutes before you decide to evict me and ignore me for the rest of our natural lives. And don't say anything. Not a word, that's the deal."

And then her eyes cease to wander near the windows edge where the flies buzz, stop gazing at that boring old lamp that only works half the time anyway, and she _looks at him_.

Just stares, like she's wanted to from outside of the protection of those horrid glasses for weeks now.

Mr. Gold looks back at her, utterly quizzical. He hasn't gotten it yet, but he will, soon enough. And then he'll be all too ready to believe she's a nutter, and happily push her away just like her father did…

She can _see, _can absolutely _see_ the moment of epiphany in his eyes. Perhaps it's when she sniffles, and it's not just because of her blocked-up nose.

He doesn't resist it, doesn't _hover_ this time.

His hands clasp either side of her face, and he _stares_ at her, searches her eyes for light and understanding and sees it there.

He sounds so hoarse, so disbelieving. "You can see me?"

And again, "You can _see_ me! You're _completely whole_!"

She has to stop him, because he's terribly wrong. "I _said_ that you mustn't say anything."

He doesn't, apparently, _feel_ like saying anything. Instead, he hugs her, clutching her to his chest and shaking with excitement as he mumbles something into her shoulder. Belle can pinpoint the moment her heart starts to falter, can pinpoint when the voices begin to creep out from the darker shadows in her mind. She's stiff and nonconforming, even with the warmth she craves surrounding her. Mr. Gold notices, and releases her.

She doesn't allow him the chance to start talking again.

"I _can_ see you. And I'm sorry, because that makes me a liar, and I hate lying."

If she hadn't already told him to be quiet, he'd still be speechless. "So I can understand if you never want to see me again," Belle explains patiently, "because I'm a more than a tad insane, and besides that being enough of a reason, I _did_ lie to you for a month about—about _being blind_."

Mr. Gold makes a strangled noise, wrapping his hands around hers tightly.

"I should be held completely responsible for my actions. It was because I didn't want Aunt Sarah evicted, of course. She was my only friend there for a while, and she didn't have anyone but her cats, not really—and she brainstormed the _strangest_ idea. Dr. Hopper was alright with the idea because he understood that, but he said the truth would out—and it has. I could have pretended to get better, but…it wouldn't be right. Once I started to meet more people, people who were introduced to me as a blind girl, I hated lying. But it was an obligation, and I'm a bit terrified of what people will _really_ think of me if they know the truth."

Mr. Gold's face is expressionless, waiting. She stares at him, he stares at her.

Belle sighs. "So, since you'll be the first to hear the truth, it'll be a good indication of everyone else's reactions…I suppose. Well, the truth is that I'm not out of the hospital because of medical issues due to an accident that left me blind, but that I'm out because kind Dr. Hopper took the time to prove me legally sane after noticing I wasn't gibbering in my padded room." She mutters sardonically, "although I guess this might undo all his hard work, as soon as word gets around that I've recently been released from an asylum and managed to fool the general public. That will certainly change people's opinions of me."

Belle laughs bitterly, startling Mr. Gold, who is still clutching her hand with white knuckles. "So, _no,_ not completely whole. More like _cracked_ and lying all over the place after being dropped from a great height. But at least you know the truth now, and I can stop feeling so awful about myself. And again, I'm sorry. I wanted to tell you sooner, but I was afraid you'd be so mad you'd never talk to me again. Which I _do_ have a track record of happening, so don't feel unjustified in doing so. I just guessed you…must have had a blind friend or something similar, and were merely taking pity on me. My bad logic is no excuse, though."

Belle glances at the dusty clock-face, and the voices are roaring in her ears. She ignores them.

"That's it, my confession. Five minutes up. Nothing to keep you here, and you can talk now if you like. Or yell, if that's your preference. I promise not to be offended, and don't expect any forgiveness."

Belle forces herself to make eye contact with Mr. Gold, motionless as ever. She feels the beginnings of indignant tears forming in her eyes.

She sighs furiously; the torment of waiting is killing her. "Please, _please_ tell me you were paying attention. Don't make me say all those things again. Just _react_ already!" Belle sniffs thickly.

He stands up, swiftly—paces around her somewhat-cleaner living space.

"Let me think, let me _think_," Mr. Gold mutters, and just as quickly resumes his seat. He grabs her hands and begins stroking them in his concentration: it's terribly distracting for Belle.

"I've known _something_ was the matter since that run-in with _the Hatter_," he says to himself, "but _this_ is it? That's _all_?"

He grabs Belle's cheek and scrutinizes her before she has a chance to wipe away her tears.

"I'm _terribly_ mad at you dearest, but I'm also a bit overjoyed you can actually _see _me. And there are things…" he pauses, "…that you may not remember, which are far worse things you must forgive of _me._ Which you may choose _not_ to. And I've thought long and hard on it, and if there's any chance you'll ever forgive me once you remember, I'll happily suffer anything you manage to throw at me until such a time when _you_ will face a decision far harder than any you—as you are _right now_—will likely throw my way. I decided a long time ago that if you—if you were ever with me again, I would do _anything_ to make sure…well, that you'd not be leaving again." Mr. Gold gives her a watery smile.

Belle is still trying to puzzle _that_ out when he suddenly turns and kisses her abruptly. It's a decent kiss—it could be a lot better if only she'd not been sick and about to cough. She jerks away from him, and that frightened face she's swiftly becoming familiar with reappears on Mr. Gold's face.

"Am—I—" she hacks out, "—forgiven?" her coughing fit still hasn't ceased.

"Very," he says in a heavier brogue than normal, and swoops in again to be stopped by an abrupt hand.

"_I'm sick,_ you idiot!" Belle announces when she can talk again. "Do you _think_ I _want_ to get you sick?"

Mr. Gold actually ponders this.

"Don't care, waited long enough" he replies, and this time, actually manages to kiss her. Belle gives up fighting, and gives in. Soon enough, her fingers are brushing at the hair at the back of his neck, and _this is really very nice, don't you agree, voice in the back of my head? Voice? Voice?_ Silence. Thank heavens.

They are interrupted by a bark at the door, and a bit of knocking. Belle remembers that the door won't be locked, and calls out "come in!" before _other persons_ have an opportunity to object.

It's Jefferson at the door. He glances between Mr. Gold and Belle smugly.

"Hello, crazy girl!" Jefferson greets Belle, who decides she was very punctual in telling Mr. Gold the real story. Truth will out, after all.

The barking continues, and in flounces a tiny cocker spaniel puppy.

"Delivery for Belle Avonlea in 207," Jefferson announces to the slightly flushed pair, making a snide comment in his head about how incredibly _awkward_ the two are.

"And _there's _the little lady right now."

Jefferson gives them an amused, considering look, waggles his eyebrows, and exits.

"Well," Mr. Gold sighs, "_here's_ the real reason I was mad at you."

The miniscule cocker spaniel wags her short tail and darts towards Belle, panting.

"She's a bit small for a guide dog, but she reminded me of you."

Belle gives Mr. Gold a disbelieving stare.

"Are you quite serious?"

"Absolutely."

"I forgot to tell you something. I _quite _love you, you know," Belle tells him, "even if I haven't the foggiest idea of what your _name_ is." The look he gives her is one she won't understand until months later, after the curse is over and Belle realizes that she was never really insane to begin with. But it _does_ prompt him towards that bittersweet, reminiscing look that she'll soon discover inevitably leads to the same words, whispered in reply like the ghosts and voices that will one day cease to haunt them.

.

.

.

* * *

**A/N:**

**Explanations:**

Ms. Sarah Felton, her cats, and the cocker-spaniel puppy (Lady) are all from Disney's _Lady and the Tramp._

Aunt Sarah is never given a last name, but I chose Felton in honor of her voice actress. The cats are named although I never found it important to mention. Since ABC is a channel operated by Disney, and several Disney-but-not-fairy-tale characters have already appeared in the show (cough_Hook_cough), I thought it was all fair game under the House of Mouse. Belle's last name is given as Avonlea due to her anger and estrangement with her father. Avonlea was chosen because it is the fairly-accepted name of Belle's demesne/home area and was seen on a map during the episode 'Skin Deep'.

I consider this finished, but I _might _add 'deleted scenes' that time constraints didn't allow in redux form if there's any interest in it.

This is my first OUAT fic, since I normally stick to the moonie fandom (as is evidenced by my icon). However, this was an opportunity to stretch my ficcing talons, so I decided to participate in the Rumbelle Secret Santa on tumblr. My writing url on tumblr is " .com" if you feel like following and/or prompting me in further endeavors: I do promise I'm very friendly. Please leave a comment, especially if you have a question or notice an error.

Sincerely,

Kate.


End file.
